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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888798">egoists</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi'>khirimochi (NekoAisu)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Tower [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Porn, Dark Knight Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Degradation, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Hand Jobs, Identity Issues, Inappropriate Use of Magic for Sexual Means, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Multi, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, One-Sided Attraction, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Pining, Praise Kink, Smut, Trans Male Character, Trans Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Voyeurism, consensual but not explicitly so, guided masturbation, they are vaguely safe and vaguely consensual but im not sure about sane</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:48:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,493</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He watches intently when the Exarch opens his mouth to reply. “I would like to be—” <i>decimated, picked apart, forced to my knees</i> “—let up.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Original Character(s), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Tower [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878643</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/1ZgOl4mIc084LGVWtkmv4F?si=ydRoiDj0SGG4MGrUQEY26Q">With you, I'm alone, but you're still nearer/Not somewhere alive, but somewhere deeper</a>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>i have been blasting Egoist the entire time i wrote this and im pretty sure it shows</p><p>First chapter is SFW!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Emet-Selch knows the moment the Exarch manages to summon the Warrior of Light. Their soul is an inimitable thing, bright and bitter and… dead. That isn’t right, now, is it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands from his seat behind the desk of the Architect, only affording the barest correction to his posture, before tearing open a portal and stepping through. He wanders through Norvrandt like it is a simulation of sorts, one large illusion filled with mismanaged assets and coded Creations, and does not bother with the frivolity of alerting the Crystarium guards. They do not turn to look at him when he strides through the gates. Their minds are so </span>
  <em>
    <span>weak, </span>
  </em>
  <span>barely strong enough to understand and discover cheap glamour, and his well-practiced spellwork is far beyond their ken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Entering the Crystal Tower proves mildly more difficult. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mildly. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What in Zodiark’s name is that damned Exarch thinking, leaving the entirety of the Tower and its aether open for his manipulation? Last he had visited, the entire structure had been shuttered so tightly that bending the energy had made his hands tingle. Pushing past it had been less than a challenge, but was in no way easy as </span>
  <em>
    <span>this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Afternoon, Exarch,” he greets, grimacing at the tang of ozone within the Ocular. “I would say </span>
  <em>
    <span>good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but you know where my sensibilities lie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a person collapsed against the portal. Or, at least, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>assumes </span>
  </em>
  <span>collapsed. They could be dead. Their soul should be departing shortly if they expired during a botched summoning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of loosing itself from its mortal bindings, their aether shudders and quakes before settling stubbornly into their bones. Their head moves as if on a rusted gimbal, rotating roughly to face him. Their voice rasps, “Ever heard of leaving people alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emet-Selch can feel himself smile shallowly. “So you’ve finally succeeded,” he surmises as their soul flickers with an off-kilter evenness. The gold  color he had seen once on the Source is muted, darker and far less blinding than it had been within that Miqo’te’s chest, and matches the disgustingly armored figure quite well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” the Exarch starts before halting. His hand tightens on his staff. “I apologize,” he manages, “but it needed to be done. I am working—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Attempting,” Emet-Selch corrects. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Working,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>the Exarch repeats, “to Call the Warrior of Light. There is something I must ask of him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The summoned creature picks themself up with little elegance. Standing at their full height, armor covering them helm to toe, they have nearly an entire half fulm on the Exarch. Their hands are not quite the same size within their leather gloves when they reach forward and grab him by the front of his robes. Their voice splinters into a cacophony of tones when they ask, “What do you want with him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Norvrandt is beset by a terrible calamity—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And it’s up to the Warrior of Light to save the day so you can pat yourself on the back, is it? I’m almost happy he’s dead,” they spit, voice softening to something vaguely familiar when they whisper, “Hydaelyn knows he’d be too forgiving of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch startles and for a moment, his facade drops. There is genuine </span>
  <em>
    <span>terror </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the face beneath his hood. The person (or rather, </span>
  <em>
    <span>being</span>
  </em>
  <span>) he faces is whole, solid, and body and soul both, and they are furious enough that their aether burns against his crystal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emet-Selch wonders if he understands who he is speaking to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(The soul is the same, even if the color is not right. By virtue of soul theory— a study he never had much of a talent for —it’s simply the result of something like trauma or the melding of another shard back into the whole. )</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How brave the Exarch is to speak of his idol like the person before him is not the very person he desires. He pities him, but not enough to stay his machinations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dead, you said? How tragic.” He even leaves off his customary grimace for the occasion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could say that,” they reply stiffly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks toward them, away from the periphery, and reaches out with one gloved hand to dissipate their helm. He does not get nearly close enough to do it cleanly, but even them smacking his arm away is not enough to stop it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give that back or so help me, I will cleave you in two,” they growl, flashing teeth and volatile magics like a cornered animal. Even with liquid shadow painting odd portions in sharp relief, there is something strikingly familiar about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch looks like he’s seen a ghost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fahmi?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unmasked, he does not look all too different from how he did during the Crystal Tower expeditions. The notch on his left ear is new, as are the nearly spiderlike markings on his face, but the structure is the same. From the angle of his jaw to the bow of his lips, he might as well be a copy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dead,” the Miqo’te snaps. “Stare all you like, but this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>body now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That can’t be.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emet-Selch manages to keep himself from laughing, but not from smiling. The Exarch is easier to read than any of his Allagan tomes. There is pain in his eyes, disbelief painted in the draw of his brows, and when he speaks, there is a thinness to his voice suggesting of tears. He is entertainment unto the world’s end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Though he could have been an ally, part of his mind likes to sing, and he is lonelier than he has ever been while staring down the remains of his beloved’s soul.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you truly not him? I─it was my goal to see that he survives the Calamity. I was reaching back toward a time where he should have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The Fahmi-lookalike just sighs. None of the tension leaves his body in its wake. “Why the hells would I lie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had Emet-Selch any remaining compassion, he might have assisted with getting the displaced adventurer back to whatever facsimile they hailed from, but watching the Exarch attempt to diffuse the situation is far more entertaining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is not that I believe you to be lying,” he replies in a rush, “but ‘tis hard to believe. How did you, or rather, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>did you possess his body?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>body. We are one and the same, even if he never accepted it… accepted </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch nods like he actually understands. Emet-Selch is willing to bet the fate of the First that he does not, in fact, understand the situation. “I’d read of a peculiar soul crystal. I take it that you are the result of its teachings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If that helps you sleep at night,” he says, still glowering at Emet-Selch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I have your name? Given that I cannot send you back immediately, I would at least have a way to refer to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Combo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch’s face twists under his hood. It matches fairly close to how Emet-Selch feels about the name as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Combo? Like a combo meal? Like two or more? He couldn’t choose something else? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Even a “Bob” would cut it.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies for such a lackluster first impression,” he says, plastering a smile over his anxiety. “I am the steward of this tower and the Crystarium beyond. You may call me Exarch. This gentleman is Emet-Selch and he will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>leaving</span>
  </em>
  <span> shortly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How terribly rude. I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>business </span>
  </em>
  <span>here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like being a nuisance,” Combo mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like being a </span>
  <em>
    <span>blessing,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he says with an overtone of sarcasm. “No thanks to your summonings, I have been finding it increasingly difficult to get any work done. I do so enjoy observing your failures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch bristles. He squares his shoulders, puts his figurative foot down, and states flatly, “You are in no way welcome. Now, if you would do me a favor and depart, it would be appreciated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emet-Selch, for all of his virtues, is still a man of many vices. The foremost of those being his adoration of dramatic exits. He snaps, the clicking sound blunted by his glove, and steps backward into nothingness. He does not miss his chance to have the last word, however. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Best of luck with your hero.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Combo just growls louder than ever. His notched ear rotates as if listening for some echo he can jump at and tear to shreds. He wheels on the Exarch, teeth bared and hand on the hilt of his broadsword, to demand, “Send me back, or tell me where he </span>
  <em>
    <span>went</span>
  </em>
  <span> so I can rend him </span>
  <em>
    <span>limb</span>
  </em>
  <span> from </span>
  <em>
    <span>limb!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot force you to abide by my word, but I will ask that you listen—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you can guilt me into saving your world, yeah? Just figure it out yourself and send. Me. Back.” His grip shifts in warning, the leather of his glove creaking to match. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch inhales sharply. He tries for an authoritative tone when he states, “I cannot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He succeeds, but Combo’s face pinches like the Exarch had personally forced him to eat an entire lemon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The expression does not abate even as he orders, “Then figure it the hells out.” He storms out of the Ocular like a thunderhead. Once the doors click shut behind him, the Exarch allows himself to sink down to the floor and </span>
  <em>
    <span>groan.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down heavily, knees bent and forehead resting atop them, and very quietly whispers, “Twelve forfend, I’ve done it again.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Emet-Selch finds them entirely too predictable.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Exarch won’t let me write pwp 😔</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>What a disgusting little exhibitionist the Crystal Exarch is. Laid out on the floor of the Ocular with a boot crushing down against his chest, he simply offers platitudes and pleas to his second favorite mortal adventurer instead of blocking Emet-Selch’s view of his debauchery. There is no reason for him to allow the Ascian—his </span>
  <em>
    <span>enemy—</span>
  </em>
  <span>to observe what is quite clearly a private activity. He has stopped him before. He could easily do it again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> and that is an answer unto itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a strange creature you are,” Emet-Selch mutters to himself, resting his chin on the back of his hand. He watches the viewing portal swirling before his desk as if it’s nothing more than a badly acted reality TV skit. There is no way that the Exarch is capable of such devotion. Not for someone who is not his revered Warrior of Light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, they do share a face—the one he has and the one he seeks—so it makes </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mortals are rather simple, after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is audio, odd as it tends to be. Aether is capable of carrying sound, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>generating </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, and despite its unpredictability when it comes to volume, it does make for a reasonable speaker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You disgust me,” Combo says dully. His voice is warped, an echo of itself, and Emet-Selch adjusts the aspects of his portal with a flick of his hand. The adventurer shifts his weight, heavy steel sabatons still in place despite his platemail having been shed, and the clinking of metal comes ringing through as it should.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch looks wretched like this. His chest strains against the weight, fingers trailing reverently upward as far as they can reach, and when his eyes cut to the side (to where he knows Emet-Selch is watching), he smiles slyly. There’s a note of satisfaction to his gaze like he knows he has a captive audience. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like he knows Emet-Selch will watch from beginning to end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if maybe this was his intent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really think you can call yourself by another name and somehow run away from those years, don’t you?” Combo asks. He ignores what senseless responses he is given—things like “I have no knowledge of what you speak of” and “There was no one else in the Tower”—to instead reach down and tear the Exarch’s glamour to shreds. “Hello there, G’raha Tia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man in question flushes a brilliant red, caught in his lies, but makes no further moves to deny it. “‘Tis rude to stare,” he mutters, unable to meet his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And rude to lie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winces. That is nearly more painful than the pressure on his chest. He may have tread-shaped bruises blooming in the morrow, but the reminder that he has been lying (running away, avoiding, forgetting) the time where he was simply G’raha Tia and not the Crystal Exarch. He isn’t sure he can put down the burden of his new name even if he tried. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it you want?” Combo asks, tilting his head to glower down at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch flounders. He tries to think about the situation logically and come up with a satisfactory response. Something he wants? That could be nearly anything. He is a covetous man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combo waits patiently, tugging his gloves off finger by finger, and sighs when he notices yet another scratch on the metal of his right hand. He pays the mechanics of his prosthetic arm more attention than he does the Exarch’s wriggling. Emet-Selch would like to say that he does a passable job at being disinterested, but the impatient twitching of his bobtail gives him away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches intently when the Exarch opens his mouth to reply. “I would like to be—” </span>
  <em>
    <span>decimated, picked apart, forced to my knees </span>
  </em>
  <span>“—let up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What a </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Liar,” Combo snaps, and Emet-Selch agrees. He digs his heel in a little harder as if to punish him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breathing may not be a necessity, but I do enjoy not having to wheeze.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs. “A pity. You could just tell the truth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I not?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch refuses to meet his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combo continues to fuss over his arm like he has the entirety of eternity at his disposal with which to wait. He checks screws and bolts, the seams between each warworn steel plate, and pokes around the cracked inlays that once were solid auracite with a clinical familiarity. The seam between prosthetic and flesh is ringed with sigils tattooed in the same purple as the Exarch’s Archon mark. The thin, nearly illegible lines of incantations cover what skin remains up to the shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emet-Selch can’t make them out from his spot on the house, but he is nothing if not an experienced voyeur. A slight adjustment to his portal brings him closer and with better audio than ever (granted, he ignores the crackling interference from the Tower trying to force him out). It’s a double-edged sword.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He examines the inkwork with mild interest, ignoring how the Exarch tries to wriggle his way out of giving the adventurer a response, and is pleased to note that there isn’t a symbol that’s misshapen. Whoever completed the tattoo deserves a singular clap. It’s low level warding, in comparison to the arrays he had built and observed in Amaurot, but a Sundered being managing to replicate a facsimile of their wisdom is about as annoying as it is charming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you afraid of?” Combo asks. “What’s got you shivering that you can’t tell me? Is it because we share a face, me and Fahmi?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looks down at him, it’s nearly unnoticeable. His sclera is the same color as his iris and pupil—a terrible, hungry black. The type of color that could be comforting or nurturing, had you proven deserving—and eye contact is less a meeting and more of a sensation. There is pressure born from </span>
  <em>
    <span>expectation. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He would not be denied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Partially that…” the Exarch says, voice strained. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks away, finding a spot on the Ocular’s wall to stare at instead, and whispers, “I cannot bear to say it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combo exhales sharply as if he intended to laugh. “Let me guess… you want me to force it out of you, tear the mantle of Exarch right off of your shoulders, and teach you how to be a man again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What a self-assessment, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Emet-Selch thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That poor creature doesn’t even know that he speaks of his own needs. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if I do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he says, smiling with too many teeth, “I can provide.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Exarch shudders, eyes wide and face flushed, before giving an aborted nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emet-Selch sighs. They are both too predictable.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Is that all y’ know ‘ow t’ do,” Combo asks in his borrowed voice, “rutting against my boot like an animal?” He steps back, taking the stimulation with him, and G’raha narrowly manages to avoid whining.<br/>“No, I─”<br/>“One word will do.”<br/>G’raha nearly growls. “No.”<br/>“Good boy.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the nsfw really begins!! please make sure to double check tags for your safety and let me know if I missed tagging anything ;;w;;</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Crystal Exarch might be dying. Just a little. Or a lot. The only person who</span>
  <em>
    <span> should </span>
  </em>
  <span>care is very much ignoring the situation in his smalls to instruct him in the art of absolute denial. His hands twitch where they rest atop his thighs. He wants to touch (himself, his inspiration, something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything), </span>
  </em>
  <span>but he would also be obedient. He has a want to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have Combo smile at him with more than contempt and preemptive disappointment, and would suffer an eternity just to attain that approval. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re surprisingly well behaved,” Combo comments, circling him like a vulture. “How does it feel to be stripped of your regalia, Exarch? Oh, wait. It should be G’raha, shouldn’t it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His metal hand pulls the elastic from the end of his braid as he passes, flicking it to the side of the Ocular and out of sight. The Exarch struggles not to respond that he hasn’t responded to that name in </span>
  <em>
    <span>decades </span>
  </em>
  <span>and that is is wholly unbecoming of him to have his hair down when anyone could walk in and─“Remind me; what time was Captain Lyna scheduled to return with the Crystarium’s watch report?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In three bells,” he breathes. The notion of being seen in such a state by the very same person he </span>
  <em>
    <span>raised </span>
  </em>
  <span>nearly kills all of his arousal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have time, but─” Combo strides over to the Ocular doors and draws a locking sigil on top of the gilding “─I’m not inclined to share.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of his boots against the floor is sharp. The clicking is nearly like a countdown to when he’ll begin his torment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hands where I can see them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He adjusts where they lay specifically to obey and not because he was about to sit on them to avoid touching. No sirree. Definitely not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He’s had a six decade dry spell of raising a very energetic Viis child and attempting to save the Warrior of Light from certain death. Even had someone shown interest in him, they would be hard pressed to find time with which to</span>
  <em>
    <span> court </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. He hadn’t even thought about taking himself in hand when there was always something else to be done, some other topic to be researched, or the seam between crystal and skin was aching badly enough that all he wanted to do was sleep until it stopped.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combo does not kneel to look at him on his level when he says, “I forgot to ask. Would you prefer to be blinded? It would be easier to pretend I’m the one you seek.” He watches with vague interest to catch the changes in G’raha’s expression, spinning spells on the tips of his flesh hand all the while. Silencing is one he’s particularly good at, but he can manage a solid Blinding curse for his least favorite Mystel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is some sort of war occurring within G’raha’s mind because his face pinches to match. He looks like he has something to say, a rebuttal perhaps, but whatever it is does not make it out of his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I asked a question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He manages a vague sound of disagreement before clearing his throat. Without the layers of fabric and fable wrapped about his shoulders, he feels vulnerable just like he did all those years ago as a scholar of Allagan history. He was always the rearguard, the funny and charming friend; he was G’raha Tia who could only look at his feelings through the lens of story because he refused to acknowledge them as his own. He’s wide open without the aegis of feigned detachment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t sure why he accepts. What is there to hide without sight when Combo is nearly the opposite of the adventurer he knew? From the feeling of his fingers to the smoke-roughened timbre of his voice, there is a distinct difference between them. Combo is not Fahmi. He could not be even if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>G’raha realizes with a suddenness that is nearly dizzying that he simply wants to hide from himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To watch his own mismatched hands shake while he obeys orders is already surreal enough. He has no need for the disconnect of being called G’raha and seeing crystal spilling across his own chest. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to see himself fall apart in the same way he craved as a young man. There is no way he would be able to reconcile it with reality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combo smiles at him like he just allowed him a wicked indulgence (and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>They smile similarly when pleased. It is still more foreboding when he does it, though, because the happy squint feels more like a narrowing of eyes than an expression of joy) before leaning down to press his fingers to his brow and swallow his sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is it?” he asks conversationally, laughing lowly when G’raha startles. “Do I sound familiar?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you─</span>
  <em>
    <span>why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He smooths his metal hand down the bare curve of G’raha’s back to tease at the base of his tail, listening to the hitches in breathing that follow, before replying. “‘Ow did </span>
  <em>
    <span>who? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Don’ y’ miss me, G’raha?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of his old friend’s voice (the same one that haunted his waking hours just as it did his sleep) is nearly enough to send him jumping out of his own skin. He does not manage to keep the tremor from his voice when he replies, “That’s─that’s not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>funny.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’ seem t’ think I’d be th’ sort f’r an easy lay, yeah? D’you even know </span>
  <em>
    <span>how many people I had to protect him from? How are you any more worthy?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He shudders, ears flicking to try and find the source of the multi-tonal voice and coming up empty, before he gasps, the fingers that had been so gentle before now digging sharply into his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I ask a question, I expect an answer,” Combo reminds, voice shifting back to Fahmi’s before he continues. “You’ll do that f’r me. I know y’ can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He would, gladly, but words stick in his throat and pile up like stones. What could he say in his defense?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, my Warrior,” he breathes, and Combo’s lightless laughter sounds right next to his ear. His warmth withdraws, leaving him to shiver, and something distinctly boot-shaped nudges against the front of his smallclothes. He doesn’t even think about whether or not he should allow his hips to rock into it because any stimulation is better than nothing and he’s been running on a deficit for nearly an entire bell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that all y’ know ‘ow t’ do,” Combo asks in his borrowed voice, “rutting against my boot like an animal?” He steps back, taking the stimulation with him, and G’raha narrowly manages to avoid whining. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I─”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One word will do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nearly growls. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combo rewards him with his boot again, metal plating sending a chill through the fabric where it presses up against him, and does not command him to move. He keeps carefully still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he does deign to order him, it’s with his words warping around a smile. “Y’ can do it. I’s cute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cute? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Him? </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Wh─”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I ask a question?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For once in his much-too-long life, G’raha manages to keep his mouth shut. He seethes, instead, and does his </span>
  <em>
    <span>utmost </span>
  </em>
  <span>to stay perfectly, absolutely still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are y’ alright? I thought y’ wanted this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does. He’s never stopped wanting. There is one glaring issue, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emet-Selch is still watching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is nothing within the Tower that he is not aware of. The familiar, cold intrusion of the Ascian’s magic sits to his side. He could close it, call upon the Tower to oust him from the Ocular if not the entirety of the Crystarium, but he… is not sure he wants to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” he replies, making a split second decision he already knows will bring only regret. “You gave me a safeword.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who gave you that word? Was it me,” Combo asks conversationally, “or was it </span>
  <em>
    <span>him? </span>
  </em>
  <span>The one y’ like enough t’die for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs with the same magnetic contempt as earlier, but this time it tapers into something lighter, something </span>
  <em>
    <span>loving. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’ really are too good, G’raha,” Fahmi says. “Too obedient. Too selfless. Too </span>
  <em>
    <span>giving. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Do y’ even know how t’ take your own pleasure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>G’raha knows that it’s just Combo using his voice, copying his inflection, and that the Warrior of Light he pictures is long dead in more than just his timeline. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>and falls prey to the illusion in spite of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has words and an answer sitting on his tongue, but when the boot presses insistently against him, he loses them to a groan. He can feel his tail begin to flick and his control over it is slipping, same as the iron grip he has on his libido. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘M gonna step back and I want y’ to listen t’ what I tell you. Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he replies, nearly hissing when Fahmi does as he promised. He stays on his knees, nails digging into his thighs to stop himself from reaching out and trying to grab hold of his fantasy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All his hands would meet is metal and malice. He has no need for reality at the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take those off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He peels off his smalls awkwardly, balance a little off kilter without his sight, and is guided back to his knees by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He shivers. It isn’t from the chill of the Ocular’s crystal floor against his skin. It’s from an odd hunger</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t wait to obey Fahmi, craves the false fulfillment of having his borrowed voice sing his praises, and even something so simple as a bracing touch is enough to set his skin tingling. He wants to eat his fill of every single indulgence he’s refused himself over the decades. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would listen and do as he is told just like a housepet would for treats. Combo wasn’t too far off when he said he was rutting against his boot like an animal. He wants to bite like one (like he would have, had he become Nunh and not run from the G tribe to study at Sharlayan) until skin breaks and he can taste it on his tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all the vices he has barred himself from in pursuit of asceticism, that is the worst of them all. It is the loudest, the most carnal, the want that verges on </span>
  <em>
    <span>need. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But Fahmi is combing his fingers through his hair oh so soothingly and he would not dare ruin what he already has. So he listens and he waits until there is something given to him to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Touch yourself like y’ would me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wishes it were anything but.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <i>I see myself in you, I've always been an egoist/I want the best for you, you show me where my ego is</i>
</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>sometimes self care is peeping on the emo version of the wol while he steps aggressively on the crystal exarch. yeah. </p><p>Scream with/at me on:<br/>Twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/khirimochi">@khirimochi</a> OR <a href="https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody">@TheHolyBody (NSFW)</a><br/>Tunglr @<a href="https://kiriami.tumblr.com">Main</a> OR @<a href="https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com">FFXIV Imagines</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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